


do not stand at my grave and weep (i am not there)

by hellchoirs



Series: I Did Not Die [1]
Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Character Death, Gen, Ghost Klaus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:01:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22882978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellchoirs/pseuds/hellchoirs
Summary: When he is sixteen years old, Klaus watches his own body be lowered into the cold dirt.
Series: I Did Not Die [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1644859
Comments: 15
Kudos: 291





	do not stand at my grave and weep (i am not there)

It is November seventeenth, forty-seven days after his sixteenth birthday, and Klaus is staring at his own corpse.

The sky is clear with only a few clouds breaking the pale expanse, and the afternoon sun sends shadows crawling out across the floor like slow, hesitant spiders outstretching their legs, growing larger with passing time. There is a chill in the air, though he can’t feel it anymore. He remembers vividly the way the biting cold of the pavement on his cheek had contrasted with the slick heat of his own blood spilling past his fingers. Crimson still drips steadily from his fingers, an ever-consistent stream of blood that dissolves like dust when it hits the ground.

It’s a nice day. Out of the limousine window, Klaus had spotted a dog being walked; its head high, a bounce in its step, tail swishing, tongue lolling out of its mouth.

Klaus lowers himself onto the floor beside his own body. He notices that blood is still seeping out of the gunshot wound in his stomach; spreading out over the pavement like an encroaching flood. His lips are beginning to grow a blue tint, though, and his eyes glossy. It does very little to distract from the tear tracks evident on his cheeks.

It is utterly stupid that they made him come on this mission, he thinks. The Umbrella Academy has been crumbling since Five disappeared (not died, Klaus knows this for a fact despite what his other siblings might think and what Reginald might say) and these last few missions have been nothing more than a desperate attempt to force them all to work together. But Vanya has been spending her spare time applying to jobs and looking at apartments, Allison has received several offers for modelling in the past year though Klaus cannot confirm the legitimacy of them, and Diego’s fiery temper has seen him through several punching bags in the gym and he’s been learning how to drive. Luther has taken it upon himself to use his strength and stature to his and Reginald’s advantage in the situation of disciplining the others when they disobey Reginald, and Ben has taken to throwing up each time he returns from his private training and to crying in his sleep. As for Klaus himself, well, he treated himself for his sixteenth birthday with a baggie of coke and the praises sung from the lips of the drummer playing in the club he had run off to, and that alone is enough to describe how he has been doing lately.

Whatever made Reginald think this was a good idea, Klaus wishes he had tried it before now.

He wonders, briefly, if Dad will blame his own death on him being high and careless. He wouldn’t put it past the old man to do such a thing, but he hadn’t even been high – they had left just as he finished rolling the joint with no time to light it – and Ben knows this. Diego might know it. Luther will believe Reginald and Allison will keep her snarky opinions to herself.

He had not been high, nor hungover. The man had simply surprised Klaus, and apparently a bullet was faster than Klaus’ ability to duck and yell for help; to call for his siblings like the good lookout he always is these days and let them know one guy is getting away.

The bullet had seemed to steal his ability to make noises louder than the whimpered cries uncontrollably escaping his lips, too; he hadn’t been able to call for help as he fell to the floor and the gunman ran, hadn’t been able to do much more than paw pathetically at the wound in his stomach as if trying to pat out the fire in his organs. He had choked as a sea of copper flooded up his throat, bubbling hot over his lips and being spit out across the ground in front of him, and tears had fallen fast down his face. His writhing did nothing more than make the pain spike, but he hadn’t been able to stay still.

Klaus eyes the trail of blood smeared across the floor. It is pathetically short. He hadn’t found the strength to pull himself more than five feet closer to the door of the museum.

Of all the ways Klaus had thought he was going to die, this was not one of them. A drug overdose was becoming more and more likely – especially considering the fact that he already had overdosed once, that first night he took MDMA that left him sick and craving more, but he had been able to play it off as nothing more than a sickness and his family were none the wiser – as was the ever present possibility of being murdered each time he went out and took drugs around men that eyed him and his naïve youth with hunger. He wouldn’t even rule out suicide. But this? Shot while on an Academy mission when he hadn’t been on one for months? Certainly not.

He wonders how long it’s going to take his siblings to come out and see him. Hopefully soon, he thinks, because his blood is getting dangerously close to his hair and he really doesn’t want his hair to get matted with it.

The thought makes a laugh bubble through his ribcage and tumble past his lips, unhinged and bordering hysterical.

It’d be such a shame if his hair got ruined by his own blood. Because he’s dead.

He’s dead and staring at his own body.

What a fucked world he lives in, he thinks.

Life and death are different things for Klaus in comparison to everyone else. Death is not the end all for him as it is for everyone else – he knows that there is an afterlife to some extent. Some ghosts stick around after their death, condemned to relive their death in a loop for eternity, others are left to stew in their own fear and fury until their mind rots like their corpse and they are nothing but a shell urged on by that animalistic emotion controlling them. Others move on, though to where he cannot say.

A shame he isn’t one of them.

And so, with absolutely nothing else to do, Klaus turns his face up to the sky and waits.

Though he knows it isn’t his siblings’ faults, he can’t help but be a little more hurt with each passing minute as his body grows cold outside, unknown about. He could get up and go check on everyone, sure, but he can’t find it in himself do such a thing. Perhaps he fears going in and seeing them doing handshakes and practicing poses for the paparazzi like they used to do when they were twelve, all without him, as if they know Klaus is dead and they don’t care.

His knees find their way to his chest and his chin atop them, arms wrapping around his shins and he watches the blood oozing from his body begin to slow. Maybe he’s running out. Drained dry. The thought makes him laugh airily and he struggles to stop it.

And then, finally, they come.

Diego steps outside first, then Allison, with Ben shuffling out after her, looking miserable and drenched in his own blood, trembling faintly and looking nauseous, and Luther holds the rear.

“Klaus? Klaus!” Calls Diego, looking around. Three steps forwards and he ought to be able to see Klaus’ hand outstretched on the floor, reaching out pathetically to the door. He shouldn’t have stood around the corner.

“Has he left?” Luther grumbles sourly, and the group of them all come forwards, muttering together. Then they step onto the pavement, look left. Ben looks right.

“Klaus? Klaus – oh my god-“

“Ben?”

Ben rushes forwards. His siblings turn to watch him, then their eyes fall onto Klaus’ body and they all widen comically.

Klaus, stupidly, jumps up onto his feet and says, “Ben?”

Ben runs right through him. The sensation sends him reeling, stumbling back, atoms vibrating in a way that makes him nauseous without the feeling of nausea.

His siblings form a semi-circle around him and Ben’s hands reach out to cup his cheeks, trembling, and mouth moving silently, uncertain of what to say.

“K-Klaus,” stammers Diego, words ragged on his tongue as he kneels by his side, placing one hand on his shoulder and shaking him. His body is limp, complying with Diego’s hands, and the one still uselessly over the wound falls to the ground with a thud. Diego swallows and his fingers shoot to Klaus’ neck, pressing down in search of any sign of a pulse, and then he’s pushing Ben back just enough so that he can lean over Klaus’ body and start doing chest compressions.

There is a frantic, scared look in Diego’s eyes that Klaus is sure he hasn’t seen for years. It looks similar to the time they hung the portrait of Five up in the living room, like the seal closing out any opportunities of Five’s return and the chance of him still being alive. (They never took Klaus’ word on anything, let alone Five’s predicament.)

“I – I’ll go get Dad,” Allison says, teetering on her heels before she turns, running off down the pavement in the direction of his limousine where he and Vanya will be waiting a safe distance away.

Luther hovers over Ben’s shoulders, wordlessly watching Diego alternate between chest compressions and breathing for Klaus.

Ben has gone silent, wide-eyed and staring at Klaus, one hand curled into the fabric of Klaus’ jumper.

It’s then that Klaus feels panic start to rise up in him, and he swings his head rapidly side to side to look at all his siblings. He waves his hands in front of Ben’s face.

“Guy – guys,” he stammers, clearing his throat. “Guys, I’m here – I’m – I’m right here, guys. Look at me – I’m _right_ _here_ ,” he stresses, and he tries to shove Diego off his body. His hands go straight through him, turning blue and transparent as they go through him. He retracts his hands quickly, holding them to his chest as if they were burned.

“Diego?” Luther murmurs voice quiet. Diego blinks tears from his eyes and presses down harsher against Klaus’ chest; enough Klaus hears a faint crack. He sees his lips moving nearly silently and so he leans close, catches his whispering.

“C-come on, K-Klaus, _please_ , come on, get up…”

Klaus inhales a ragged breath that doesn’t fill his lungs and he stumbles backwards. “I’m right here,” he says, looking at them all. “ _I’m here_!”

He remains unheard of, everyone completely deaf and blind to him there, and Klaus stumbles further backwards as if horrified by it.

Allison comes running back. She pauses, staring at Diego with her face twisting before she speaks; “we need to get him home!” She says. “Grace – Grace can help.”

Ben staggers onto his feet, swaying for a moment. “Come on,” Luther says. Diego doesn’t stop working on his corpse, though, as if also blind to his other siblings.

“Diego, we need to get him home,” Allison says, setting a hand on his shoulder. Diego shrugs her off.

“I-I c-can do this,” he hisses, then immediately starts again. Allison tugs him more forcefully.

“Diego-“

“F-fuck off!” Diego snaps, glaring at her and wrenching his shoulder free. Allison glares back.

“He needs Grace, Diego!” She snaps. “He needs Grace!”

“Diego, please,” Ben murmurs in a wavering voice, hands clenched tight into fists. Diego eyes Ben, still for several moments, and then he stands up and Luther moves forwards, tugging Klaus’ body into his arms with ease. Klaus’ head hangs over his arms, pale throat exposed, eyes open and unseeing, and one arm hangs limply from his shoulder, fingers curled lightly. Blood drips from them, splattering a trail on the floor.

Luther runs, and everyone runs after him. Klaus follows.

They file into the limousine, hurrying past the dwindling paparazzi though Diego glares wildly at them all. Klaus grimaces. He can imagine the headlines tomorrow, the pictures.

He falls through the car door. He flinches when his head comes close to the door, though when he opens his eyes he is half-way through it, and he struggles to sit upright.

“What – Klaus? What happened?” Vanya asks, standing up as much as she can in the limousine. Her eyes are wide, looking between them all for answers. Diego’s hands are clenched in tight, trembling fists, nails digging into his palms, and he looks as if he has to restrain himself from reaching out and trying to give Klaus CPR again.

The car takes off swiftly. Luther shifts Klaus slightly, squeezing his shoulder as if it might make Klaus suddenly wake up. It does not.

There is a thick tension in the car that suffocates Klaus. It feels heavy and oppressive, a weight on his body, and he curls his hands into his jumper and looks around at his siblings frantically. He is completely invisible to them.

“S-someone sh-should have c-checked,” Diego mutters, unclenching and clenching his fists in time with his unsteady breathing. His voice is tight as he swallows back tears, probably still under the delusion that they will get home and Mom will have Klaus sitting upright in bed within ten minutes. As much as Klaus would like to imagine so, he finds it hard to do.

There is a sudden chill in his bones. Heavy and deep, it weighs him down like anchors, pulling him down to the bottom of the sea. Chains are hooked around his wrists and ankles, refusing to let him go, trapping him mercilessly to this cold realm. He isn’t sure how to describe it, but everything feels… blurred, dark around the edges, like paper caught alight, flames devouring it from the outside in. It feels like slowly sinking deeper and deeper into an endless, cold body of water, unable to see or hear anything around him; freezing and so utterly and completely alone, body empty of air and everything else as if someone has turned him inside out and rendered him nothing more than a shell; nothing more than a corpse.

It is scary. And in contrast to it, his siblings seem so bright, so warm, and a desperation for that light and heat bubbles up from an unknown place inside of him; he wants it, needs it. Their life is like a candle in an otherwise pitch black room, a fire in a blizzard, and the desperation for it is overwhelming for a few moments until he gets himself under control.

Is this what the ghosts feel? Does this desperate need for Life drive them mad? He understands, all of a sudden.

The sight of his body so limp and lifeless is almost nauseating. His lips are now blue, his skin as pale as snow, a stark contrast to the blood smeared over his skin. It stains the pristine sheets of the infirmary as Luther lays him down in front of Mom, who tuts as if it is such a silly predicament Klaus has gotten himself in, silly boy, and then she ushers his siblings back behind a curtain, cutting them off even more.

Klaus does not stay with his body. He watches his siblings instead, hovering inches from the curtain with lost, hopeful expressions and teary eyes.

Reginald takes three minutes to come into the infirmary. He says nothing to his living children and ducks behind the curtain and Klaus can’t help but follow. Will he catch a glimpse of emotion from him? Fear of losing his child? Remorse? Anger?

Reginald watches as Grace uses a defibrillator to try and bring Klaus back. His body arches with the force, as if something from the inside has thrown itself desperately against his ribcage, trying to burst free, and then it falls back onto the bed, no more alive than it has been for too long now.

Grace looks up to Reginald, a silent question in her face. Reginald shakes his head and Grace returns the defibrillator to its original place. She blinks and says; “Time of death: twelve-forty-seven-PM.”

Klaus swallows. He feels winded all of a sudden.

They are giving up.

They are leaving him dead.

Reginald inclines his head in acknowledgement and his eyes burn into Klaus’ corpse. And then he lifts his head and looks around the room with a thoughtful spark to his eyes and Klaus’ gut churns. Reginald tips his head to the left and his eyes meet Klaus’ dead on. He holds his gaze for several moments and Klaus steps forwards, reaching out – and Reginald’s gaze does not follow him. His father presses his lips together and leaves.

Grace steps out of the curtain; Klaus follows like a shadow.

His siblings, foolishly, look to her with hopeful expressions; eyebrows raised, lips parted.

“I am sorry,” she says, hands clasped daintily in front of her chest. There is blood on her fingertips, darker than her lipstick.

Luther makes a choked noise, swallowing and clenching his jaw, turning his head stubbornly away to eye one of the bright lights as if it is its fault his eyes are tearing up. Allison is silent for once, though she staggers a step back, and Vanya’s sudden inhale is audible, sharp and high. Ben blinks, and Diego shakes his head.

“Y-you ha-hardly t-t-tried!” He cries, voice wobbling like Klaus in Grace’s heels. He gestures furiously to the curtain still separating them from his body. Grace smiles sadly, setting a hand on Diego’s shoulder to stop him from rushing beyond the curtain.

“I did all I could, dear. I’m so sorry, Diego,” Grace tells him, and she moves as if to give him a hug but Diego wrenches himself free and tears the curtain back, storming to Klaus’ side. He makes a noise, pained and high in his throat, and freezes on the spot as if suddenly unsure of what he was doing.

“I’ll give you all a moment,” Grace offers, looking over everyone before she steps out, heels clicking deafeningly loud.

Hesitant, scared, his siblings take several long moments to dare to reach Klaus’ bedside. In doing so, they all walk right through Klaus himself, still reeling mentally.

Diego slips one of his trembling hands into one of Klaus’ still ones, and then his whole body deflates; he slumps, hand tightening dangerously, and his eyes close and a sob falls from his lips and they keep coming. Allison reaches a hand out as if to touch Klaus but thinks better of it, retracting it quickly and holding it awkwardly in the air by her chest, and then she uses it to cover her mouth. Luther sets one of his hands on her shoulders and she turns, seeking comfort from him, while he himself remains silent, stoic-faced despite the tears trailing down his cheeks.

Ben drags himself to Klaus’ other side. He looks lost, as if struggling to grasp the situation, and then he takes Klaus’ free hand, squeezing it desperately. His lips quiver and when he tries to breathe he sobs instead.

Vanya stands awkwardly, holding her own hands together by her lips, and she cries silently.

It is in this moment that Klaus cries. Despite the sounds that leave his lips and the tightness in his chest, no more tears are spilled than those in his last few moments on the floor.

* * *

It is November eighteenth, forty-eight days after his sixteenth birthday, and Klaus is watching as his own coffin, hiding the sight of his now-cleaned up corpse, is being lowered into the cold dirt.

He stands at the head of the grave and he looks up.

All of his siblings don dark attire, funeral-appropriate, and even darker expressions. If they do not look numb, they have silent tears on their cheeks, paid no attention to by them. Pogo looks remorseful, his face heavy with grief, and Grace’s expression is missing her characteristic bright grin.

Reginald is there. He stands at the foot of his grave, watching as dirt is thrown onto his coffin. His face reveals nothing.

He does not care. He is not grieving. His shoulders look a little lighter without the burden of Number Four’s erratic, increasingly reckless existence.

“You are excused from your duties until Thursday,” he announces, and then he turns around and returns indoors. It is Monday.

Pogo follows him indoors shortly after, and then Grace, too.

And, one by one, his siblings filter in, tearing themselves away from the fresh soil turned up in the courtyard. Ben is the last to leave.

Klaus stands on top of his own grave, watching them leave him outside, leaving him six foot below.

They do not know he is not there.

There is nothing they can do, and there is nothing he can do to bring him back. Instead, Klaus lifts his head, steels his eyes, and walks inside his home, abandoning his own grave.

He is dead, but he isn’t _gone_.

**Author's Note:**

> I plan to expand on this soon, so if you liked this idea, consider keeping your eyes open for more in this series! I'd love to hear your feedback


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